


The Hidden Piece

by microuwave



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, French Revolution, Gen, Napoleonic AU, OOC, accent aigu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22485877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/microuwave/pseuds/microuwave
Summary: The French magical community, in all their wisdom, have overturned a century of established order: the Statute of Secrecy. Why that was, Harry wasn’t exactly sure. With the muggle Revolutionary Army expanding relentlessly across the continent, Harry finds himself trapped with a mysterious woman behind enemy lines on murky, common ground.
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass/Harry Potter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18
Collections: Fics from the Haphne Discord





	1. Den Helder

Harry really hated the sea.

He hated its smell, he hated its seeming endlessness, he hated its boring, bland uniformity, and he especially hated its ever-so nauseating sway.

The cell was appalling. He could barely make out the minuscule droplets of water dripping steadily from the rotting, creaking boards of the ceiling. The putrid smell of mould and mildew was threatening only to further heighten his nausea.

A sudden, sharp jolt of the ship brought him back to his senses.

He was a prisoner, wandless, on a ship going who-knows-where, overseen by an obnoxious rabble of muggle military men speaking a language he didn’t understand, and trapped with seemingly no chance of avoiding his unpleasant fate.

Perhaps, in retrospect, undertaking a mission to the continent at this time was a guarantee that he would land himself in trouble—he was perfectly aware that the French wizards had been stirring up a bit of a fiasco with the muggles—and perhaps, in retrospect, it was a bit of a miscalculation to arrive in the Netherlands very obviously as a wizard without speaking the slightest word of Dutch. But still, go where he will, do what he must, spontaneous plans had always been his forte.

It was quite a bit of a surprise, then, when he was surrounded by a cluster of drab grey and detained. He’d already been carted to and fro by rabbles of muggle military men for two months. His new beard was starting to scratch quite annoyingly, let alone the mess of blood and grime that matted the top of his head. He didn’t really think of himself as a dandy, but the unbearable filth of his hair was only exacerbated by the extent of which he was forced to degrade himself.

He had been starved, beaten, starved, beaten again, and unceasingly interrogated about the “esoteric secrets” of Revolutionary France. He didn’t think he looked French, gave off any indication of being French, or displayed any of their infinite arrogance and disdain (perhaps he might have done), but his captors were assured of the fact that he was every bit as French as the now headless King of France’s loafers.

Perhaps it might have had to do with the fact that he only spoke English and French, and that he might have introduced himself in French to the soldiers at the Amsterdam port. Perhaps it might also have been because he was clearly magical, and perhaps, seeing as the French currently had the only statute-defying wizards in the world, the Dutch presumed that magic was inherently French. Perhaps he should have realized that the coalition soldiers would immediately arrest any person who spoke French. Granted, he didn’t think he was that conspicuous. Yes, he was a bit distracted by his attempts at removing the pigeon excrement frustratingly stuck to his broom, but surely the soldiers patrolling the streets shouldn’t have automatically assumed that a perfectly mundane-looking broomstick would be a clear indication of his magical nature.

His explanations that no, he was certainly _not_ French and no, he was certainly _not_ here to spy—perhaps he was—but definitely _not_ for the French had resulted only in increased beatings from his interrogators.

The French magical community, in all their wisdom, had decided to overturn a century of established order from the Statute of Secrecy. Why that was, Harry wasn’t exactly sure. Quite a few years had passed since that initial surprise, and he still didn’t really understand.

And he didn’t want to understand. He couldn’t really find any drive in him to sympathise. They found it boring that they couldn’t go outside without mildly inconveniencing themselves by dressing as muggles, they found it boring that they couldn’t use spells amongst muggles, they found it boring that they couldn’t wear colourful robes: those were too obviously magical, and they found it boring as well they couldn’t even wear expensive robes: those were also too obviously magical. Of course, they didn’t understand that a bit of boredom was a fairly reasonable exchange for the security and survival of magical world.

Nevertheless, feeling oppressed, they revolted.

He wasn’t ever supposed to be at all directly involved in this conflict. He was a nobleman’s son, not a fighter, not a leader, and for Merlin’s sake barely even a diplomat. It had absolutely nothing to do with him that a bunch of stuck-up wizards decided to overturn their perfectly prosperous century of stability. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever that they, the completely uninvolved magicals _from the other side of the channel_ would need to shoulder so much of the responsibility of remedying this absurd fiasco.

The ship lurched violently, abruptly becoming uncharacteristically silent. The swaying stopped; the musky air of his cell was eerily still. He basked in the silence.

A flurry of enraged shouts suddenly resonated from the upper decks, penetrating the stillness. Harry blinked. He wasn’t sure if his knowledge of the Dutch language was _that_ out of touch, but he could have sworn that he’d heard the word “cavalry” in the midst of the chaos. He wouldn’t think much of it anyway, there was not any doubt in his mind that there was some sort of attack taking place. If there was any correct time to attempt his escape, it would be now—even if he had to swim across the entire North Sea.

He frantically began to scour his surroundings for any possible means of escape. It really was disgustingly rancid here. He scrunched his nose in disgust, continuing to scan the cell for _anything_ at all that could be of help.

A tiny glimmer of reflected lantern light caught his attention. He could probably just break his way out directly, the guards didn’t seem to be posted near him anymore, he remarked, channelling his magic in his attempt at undoing the extremely muggle padlock clasped onto the entrance. It was quite funny, he never would have thought his seemingly redundant ability to do simple spells without his wand would actually come into a real, practical use. Then again, he never would have thought he would ever have been parted from his wand.

The lock unclasped; the door creaked open. There wasn’t a single indication of life in the corridor. His wand, however, was waiting for him somewhere in the ship. Attempting to minimise his presence, he carefully trod through the ship’s narrow corridors in search of his beloved eleven inches of holly and phoenix feather, paying deliberate attention not to make the slightest noise.

* * *

The air was piercingly cold, but Daphné felt none of it. She shouldn’t have, after all, it was all her doing.

The only thing she could really feel was triumph as she gleefully rode alongside the ranks of the Revolutionary Army into Den Helder. She would never have admitted it, but she was almost astonished that the Dutch campaign had managed to pass so smoothly.

She brought her horse up to the colonel.

“Are the regiments in position? We won’t have much time to spare after I cast the spell.”

“Don’t be so hasty Mademoiselle Daphné,” the colonel remarked, unnaturally calm, “Impatience is not befitting of a woman of your status.”

Refraining from formulating a response, she gritted her teeth, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. The air was already intoxicatingly rife with victory.

The soft pats of the covered hooves were becoming all too grating. They were just a stone’s throw away from victory, a tiny nudge towards being one step closer to achieving their ultimate goal. Soon, the Dutch wizarding community would be able to join their French compatriots in their open existence alongside the muggles.

Daphné felt for the small locket tucked below her collar, softly smiling as she detected the textured bump. Her mother had taught her to be proud. She would never defer to any other person, and she would never think of herself as anything but perfect. The idea that she was forced to hide this perfection, this _pride_ from the vast majority of the world had always greatly unsettled her. At Beauxbâtons, she could never understand _just how_ all of her peers were content with sitting there, hidden from the greater world, hidden from attaining their full potentials.

She scoffed. Her peers still could not understand how monumental these passing events were. When the Civil Constitution of the Clergy was passed, she rejoiced, proud to be free from a century of oppression, proud to be liberated from her restrictions. Most others, instead, used it as an opportunity to frolic about, creating unnecessary chaos that only served to be a detriment to their cause.

Daphné wasn’t one to complain, however. She just couldn’t believe she was at the forefront of all this.

The icy wind blew across her face. The satisfaction of her impending triumph was unbearably close. Each gallop of her horse, each shout from the officers served only to increasingly frustrate her. They had received word from the Dutch muggles that they had captured one of the French wizards. Daphne scoffed. How exactly they expected _that_ would make them acquiesce was beyond her.

A deep voice from behind drew her from her thoughts.

“Ready when you are, Mademoiselle.” The colonel drew his horse to a stop.

Her fingers tingled with anticipation; her trusty laurel wand unnaturally warm. Her horse, seemingly sensing her trepidation, halted at the shoreline.

The bay was calm, tranquil, undisturbed by the turmoil ravaging the country, its waters nearly as still as ice. Daphné scowled at that thought, _nearly_ was not going to be in any way enough. She shut her eyes, feeling the familiar sensation of her magic in her wand. Tendrils of white mist began to slowly manifest from her wand, penetrating the chilly air in coiled spirals. The unreserved commotion of the battalions suddenly ceased, blanketing the entire area with a suffocating silence.

She opened her eyes to observe her success. A deafening crack resounded across the bay, disrupting the silence. The calm, tranquil waters seemed to freeze in place, bringing the before waving masts in the distance to a standstill. It was all rather peaceful, serene even.

Pandemonium erupted in an instant in the otherwise quiet port. Waves of cavalrymen rushed into formation, storming across the newly formed ice with apparent ease. Daphné let out a breath of relief. Her spell had worked considerably better than she’d expected.

She sighed, bringing her horse forward into the ranks. She still had an obligation—to rescue some incompetent cretin from some nefarious situation brought about by their own wrongdoing. Really, could it have been _that_ difficult not to be captured by _muggles_?

Her trusted steed steadily traversed the ice, conspicuously clopping its hooves across the frozen surface. The frosted peaks of the warships’ masts began to shimmer into view, the details becoming finer as she gradually broke through the murky haze.

The _Admiraal_ _Piet Heyn_ was majestic, or it would have been if it were not for the near total darkness of the winter night. It was beautiful nonetheless, Daphné thought, observing the moonlight’s shimmer off the frosted hull. She disembarked from her horse, taking heed on the slippery surface. She calmed, the air around her blurring as she gracefully ascended the upper decks of the ship, softly touching down onto the frigid planks of the top deck.

She hesitated, carefully descending into the lower decks. Head high, she briskly made her way towards the stern of the ship in search of any clues to aid her search. The door was ornate, Daphné remarked, tastelessly exuberant.

Drawing her wand into her hand, she summoned her magic, the door steadily creaking open. She stared, gaping at the mop of _horridly_ messy hair before her, the owner’s _horridly_ uneven complexion and more importantly—what was _surely_ a wand that he seemed to be clutching.

Her nostrils flared with indignation.

“Just who exactly are _you_ supposed to be?”

* * *

Harry couldn’t believe his luck.

He had managed to sneak through the _entirety_ of the ship without being noticed by any of his muggle captors. It really was a fluke of luck, save the fact that his wand was nowhere to be found.

The narrow corridors were becoming oppressive; the walls seemed to be pressing in on him, becoming closer and closer with each step he took. The ship was seemingly endless, each ladder leading to another, each corridor only serving as an extension of another. His nausea threatened to overwhelm him as he stumbled through the decaying planks in search for his wand. He hesitated momentarily and painfully hit a final, ornate door.

The light reflecting off of the brass handle was almost blinding, the detailed images on the carvings threatened to jump out at him. Harry halted, momentarily deliberating. Shaking, he placed his hand on the cold metal, pushing open the door with surprising difficulty.

It was obnoxiously swanky, in the centre of the back wall stood a portrait of a rather plump man with an oddly distinct chin. A meticulously carved desk was planted in the middle, with brass-handled drawers begging to be opened and searched. The walls were lined with shelving, its contents separating themselves from Harry with uncharacteristically luminous panes of glass.

For quite some time, he rummaged through the room, searching through every nook in every drawer of the desk, his frustration only increasing as he continued to no prevail.

He took an upwards glance at the clock fixed on the wall. It struck midnight, the shouts from outside only increasing in volume. There—behind the glass—in the shelving, a familiar rod of holly was inconspicuously resting, further enticing him to reach forward and grab it, to relieve his frustration.

The transparent pane swung out before him, lightly creaking on its hinge. His arm extended; his hand outstretched, relaxing as he closed onto the familiar warmth.

A familiar grinding noise sounded from behind, forcing him to knock his knees against the unnecessarily sharp edge of the desk in his surprise. A decidedly feminine voice filled the room.

“Just who exactly are _you_ supposed to be?” A strong smell of lavenders penetrated his nose.

His wand flew out of his hand. Alarmed, he sharply turned around, again colliding with the edge of the desk.

A sudden cold burst caused him to shiver. An immaculately dressed woman stood before him, twirling his holly wand in her hand. She looked young, about the same age as him, but carried herself with significantly more maturity. Her expression seemed to exude confidence, her refined symmetry radiating a sense of condescension.

His limbs froze into place, and he collapsed onto the hard planks.

“It would be rather nice if you answered my question.” The woman demanded annoyedly, stepping towards him. His wand continued to weave in between her fingers.

Harry faltered, putting his best effort into avoiding her piercing gaze. Her blue eyes were frighteningly bright.

“I said,” the woman restated, now holding the wand tightly, pointing it at him, “Would you _please_ answer my question?”

“Vernon Dudley.” 

“Don’t. Lie.” She gritted through her teeth, eyes narrowing.

Harry recoiled. “I’m Harry Potter, the muggles on this ship took me. Now, would you please return my wand and unbind me?”

“From where?”

“England. I was with the Ministry of Magic.”

She shut her eyes momentarily, sighing. “As strong as my desire is to never see you again, you’re in all likelihood just a _bit_ too valuable.”

She levitated him into the air, leading him through the now strangely liberating bowels of the ship and onto the top deck, unceremoniously dropping him onto the cold, hard surface.

“What use am I to you anyway?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m not moving an inch without an explanation.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

He was again lifted into the air, slowly and steadily gliding towards the edge of the deck. The ice underneath was illuminated by the torchlight of the cavalrymen. He looked back at the woman, making out the outlines of her face in the dim light.

“Who are you?”

Refraining from formulating an answer, she released her spell, unceremoniously dropping him onto the back of her horse.


	2. Holland

Daphné was annoyed.

Her time of triumph should have been… well… triumphant. Instead, she was advancing towards the general with this imbecile tied to the back of her horse.

“I’ve taken a prisoner.” She descended from her horse, gesturing towards the haggard-looking man still conjoined to her steed.

The general began to respond. “Surely you must have a better reason for…”

“He’s a wizard.” Daphné cut him off.

“And naturally, Mademoiselle Daphné, he would clearly be your responsibility, no?”

She briskly turned on her heel and re-mounted her horse, releasing an exacerbated sigh, leading her steed towards the glazed beach, away from the commotion of the lingering soldiers.

“Nice to meet you too Mademoiselle Daphné.” An obscenely grating voice rang from behind her.

She scowled, disembarking onto the snow with a light crunch.

“Might as well get to know each other.”

Daphné pursed her lips, drawing her wand into her hand. A loud crack reverberated through the air, brusquely launching him through the ice and into the cold, salty depths.

She released a long, drawn-out breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. The water before her bubbled, giving way to an annoying familiar mop of black hair.

“You could just let me go, you know.” He’d managed to climb back onto the bank, significantly shivering.

“That would be too logical, Potter.” Daphné glanced down at the soaking man.

“It’s cold.”

“Presumably so, yes.”

“Will you at least warm me up?”

“I can’t.”

They rode with the army for quite some time, traversing the expansive, flat countryside. The landscape was entirely white, buried under a heavy layer of snow, its vast expanse becoming dreadfully suffocating.

“Why don’t you use a broom?” Her prisoner had again decided to speak.

Reminded of lavish excess of the wizards back home, she furrowed her brow, concentrating on following the procession in front of her. He really was grating. “Horses are… more refined, Potter. Not that you would know.”

“These ropes are awfully uncomfortable, you know.”

Daphné refrained from answering.

Her prisoner had been unconscious for quite a stretch of time when the convoy eventually came to a halt at the edge of an almost picturesque village, completely devoid of life, vacated in light of the passing armies. The commotion soon erupted, a makeshift camp quickly erecting out of the previously barren field.

“We are _not_ staying in one of those tents.” Daphné descended from her horse, shooting a stinging hex at her prisoner, rousing him with a sharp jolt.

A sluggish voice slurred in response. “Why not? They sound quite comfortable.”

“Because, _crétin_ ,” Daphné retorted, leading her horse towards the village street, “One of us hasn’t degraded themselves to spending months in a prison cell.”

With the sun slowly escaping, she soon brought them to a stop before a small cottage. The windows did not emit a single ray of light, its stone walls weathered by years of harsh winters.

“If you told me this was here I might not have been so reluctant.” Her detainee was now freshly alert, restrained on the horse, with his back straightened.

“You shouldn’t question me, Potter. It’s for your own good. Get inside.”

Potter momentarily struggled on his bindings. “I think I might be having a bit of difficulty doing that.”

*

The cottage was quite nice by muggle standards, Daphné presumed. She almost felt bad for the muggle family that had abandoned it. There were beds with soft straw mattresses and scratchy linen sheets, a woodstove covered with a layer of grime from years of heavy use, a surprisingly gorgeous dark wood table, and mercifully, a large wooden bathtub. She lightly crinkled her nose but refrained from expressing her grievances. It was all remediable.

With a light flick of her wand, the tub transformed, the rough, dark wood smoothing out into a brilliant white porcelain. A pool of water steadily rose to its rims, bubbling with soap suds.

“You,” Daphné started, grimacing at her reluctant companion, “will be getting rid of that awful stench of yours.”

*

Harry was momentarily taken aback, but he didn’t hesitate, immediately stripping off his torn and tattered rags, flinging them onto the layer of dust settled on the ground. The water sloshed as he lowered himself into the bath. He began to shiver; the water was disturbingly cold.

“It’s freezing.” He chattered through his teeth

Daphné spoke distractedly from the corner, transfiguring the scratchy linens into soft silk. “I can’t exactly do anything to fix that.”

Harry groaned, stretching back onto the cold porcelain, immediately recoiling. He struggled for an instant to channel his magic, the warmth tingling in his fingers. He collapsed, drained, resigned towards the unbearably cold state of his bath.

It was steaming when he passed out, exhausted.

*

The water was still warm when Harry woke.

He struggled to open his eyes, stuck together by a layer of discharge, making way to a soft candlelight. The windows were now pitch black, with his own weathered face reflected off of the lustrous glass. He reached for his face, finding it uncomfortably sore. It was uncharacteristically smooth; all traces of that horrid beard were vanished.

He looked across the room at his companion, her blonde hair tied in a tidy plait, her blue eyes almost black in the tint. He paused to reflect on his situation, letting out a light, incredulous laugh. He’d been liberated from months of horrid mistreatment by his supposed allies and forced into the hands of an enemy who would, in all likelihood, remove his head cleanly off his shoulders.

He wasn’t sure which one he preferred.

The bath was quite comfortable—no, scratch that—heavenly. He revelled in the warm, soapy water as he scraped the sedimentary layers of dirt and grime off of his skin. His muscles relaxed; his soreness temporarily relieved by the warmth of the water and the feeling of his now unblemished skin on the smooth porcelain of the tub.

He continued to gaze at his captor, slightly mesmerised by the ripples in her gown, the intricacy of her plait, the slight furrow of her brow as she was paused in deliberation. He attempted to muster the strength to speak, the words struggling to escape his mouth.

“I’m stuck with you, aren’t I?” His voice was raspy, the mucus trapping his speech.

“For the time being, yes.” She spoke dismissively, sitting on the edge of the bed, toying with a silver locket in her hand, opening and closing it arbitrarily. It was quite beautiful reflected in the candlelight, the ornate carvings encapsulating the room with a pattern of stars.

They sat there for quite some time, the bath eventually becoming lukewarm in the chilly room. Harry sighed, the temporary comfort had left, leaving nothing but his continually increasing sense of dread.

Deciding not to remain domicile, he began to lift himself out of the tub, wincing as he exposed his aching muscles and sores to the chilly air. He gently placed a foot on the strangely lustred wood flooring, shrinking it away as he came into contact with the cold surface. Slightly mortified, he spoke.

“Euh… Mademoiselle…” Harry flushed slightly, stilted, “Would you mind, y’know, getting me a bit of clothing?”

She gently turned her head towards him, immediately averting her eyes at the sight presented before her. Harry wasn’t sure whether or not it was out of embarrassment or disgust. Slightly fumbling with her wand, she hastily conjured a laced linen shirt and breeches, banishing it in his general direction.

Tripping over himself, he caught the freshly formed garments in his arms, hurriedly dressing, painfully suppressing the shivers that threatened to overwhelm him. Fully clothed, he made his way over to the second bed, collapsing onto the soft silk. It smelled familiarly of lavenders.

His eyes were steadily fixated onto the dark, rough beams of the roof. His companion’s delicate, drawn-out breaths resounded in the silence, puncturing the quiet, cool air in the cottage. He decided to interrupt this peace.

“Why do you do this? This entire mess—it’s just so grating. Everything’s gone to Merlin-knows-where, and there’s no end in sight. I’m tired of it.” He sat up, leaning against the wall.

Daphné shut her eyes. “It’s much more than that.”

“How would that be?”

She pressed her lips together, staring blankly in front of her, deliberating. “Do you know why we fight? Do you know why I fight? I’m tired too, Potter. But no—I’m not tired of working for what I believe, I’m not tired of going out and protecting what I deserve. I’m tired of having to hide, I’m tired of having to swallow my dignity, I’m tired of having to relegate myself to the shadows just to placate some ignorant muggles.”

“It’s not that. I just think it’d save us a lot of pain, it’d save _everyone_ a lot of pain, if—Merlin I don’t know—we just swallowed this dignity, stayed in the shadows, everything would be alright.” Harry released a deep sigh into his hand.

“And then, what would be the point? We’d lose who we are, and in the end, that’s all that matters, no?”

“I don’t know, there _has_ to be something else to it. It’s just… awfully fatalistic putting it that way. I think we could base our identities somewhere else, you know, not somewhere so… impassioned, so dubious.”

Daphné pulled her sheets closer, sounding mildly upset. “It’s never that simple, not that you’d understand. Good night, Potter.”

“Good night Mademoiselle. Perhaps…” He trailed off.

She wasn’t responding, already in a deep sleep.

Relaxed, Harry allowed himself to fall back into his bedding. The strong lavender scent again overwhelmed him as he descended into the darkness. He found it strangely comforting.

*

When Daphné opened her eyes, the sun had almost completely risen, its rays brilliantly shining through the clear glass windows of the cottage. A blinding beam of light viciously attacked her visage, endeavouring to remove her from the seeing world.

She struggled to lift herself from her nest, softly groaning into her hand, attempting to shield herself from the dazzling sunlight. Minute specks of dust perforated through the air, accentuating themselves in the brightness.

Her prisoner was already awake, back propped against the textured wall, seemingly deep in his thoughts. She ignored him.

Groping for her wand, she conjured a small mirror and began to carefully preen the details of her visage, ascertaining to the impeccability of her maquillage. This continued for quite some time, with occasional groans sounding from her companion as his contemplation appeared to be beginning to get the better of him.

Eventually, this peace was disturbed when the door unceremoniously swung open, making way to a rather squat soldier carrying a tray assorted with bread, cheese, and fruit.

“Your food.” His gaze was fixed firmly on the ground, avoiding eye contact with the intimidating witch or her equally intimidating prisoner. He hurriedly dropped the tray onto the table, hastily exiting the room, closing the door with a slam.

Potter snorted slightly. For the first time that morning, he spoke. “You’re _that_ intimidating?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Daphné scowled, allowing her magic to slip the grey Brunswick over her body.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody quite like you.” He leaned on the edge of the table for support, toying with the crusty, somewhat stale bread. He starts to chew.

“I’m touched.” She approached the tray, lightly nibbling on a piece of cheese, numb in her mouth.

Daphné wasn’t really sure what to think of her prisoner. For an enemy, he’d been surprisingly cooperative—if not obnoxious—and a bit naïve. She wasn’t very sure what use he was yet herself, honestly. It might have been a better choice to let him free on the ship, but a nagging feeling remained inside of her, telling her that he was of some use.

A slight rustle forced her to focus on the scene before her. Placing the slab of bread back onto the tray, Potter began to inquire. “How long will I be here?”

She frowned. “Until I figure out what to do with you.”

For several minutes, they ate in silence, the soft chewing echoing through the undisturbed air.

*

It wasn't so bad being Daphné’s prisoner.

It also wasn't so bad that she was quite easy on the eyes.

Anything would have been a better alternative to those Dutch muggles, Harry presumed.

Pleasant wafts of lavender crept their way into his nose as he sat at the back of Daphné's horse, the flat, white landscape seeming almost liberating. He delighted in the fresh air—after months without any access, it was intoxicating. He was a prisoner, a captive, travelling with an army at war with his own, but strangely he'd never felt freer. He felt less constricted than he'd ever been.

It was a nice feeling, but it would have been much nicer to have his wand.

A shorter horse strode up to their right flank, its rider carrying a scroll of textured parchment.

“Message for you, Mademoiselle.” He was looking into the other direction as he clumsily handed over the scroll, quickly galloping away, disappearing into the blue sea of uniform.

Harry watched from behind as she unwound the rough paper, lightly shaking her head.

“It looks like,” she began with another small shake, “we’ll be on our way.”

A sudden wave of fear rushed over Harry. “Where?”

“Amsterdam.”

“What will happen to me?” He was now extremely afraid.

“No idea.”


	3. Amsterdam

Daphné wasn’t sure who she disliked more—the French wizarding community, the Dutch wizarding community, or the—now admittedly—decently presented man seated behind her.

The habitually bustling port city seemed a bit subdued. Scores of uniformed soldiers patrolled the streets, individual muggles seemed to be wandering around, carrying about their daily errands. The buildings were all pristine, neat, clean, and very obviously completely unaffected by the recent occupation. The only disturbance in the entire city seemed to be the light layer of snow blanketed of the streets and buildings.

She was just confused.

There was not a single indication of magic in her midst. She wasn’t expecting the same overexuberance she’d become acclimated to back in France, but she was at least expecting the Dutch to have some reaction to their newfound freedom from the restrictions of the Statute.

But there wasn’t anything, and it didn’t seem like there would be.

Her companion spoke, his voice oddly restrained. “I never thought I’d be back here again.”

“A big surprise?”

“I just thought—I don’t know—it would have looked a lot different from before with the passing armies and whatnot but—it’s all the same.” He shivered slightly.

“It is rather unsettling.” Daphné grimaced at her surroundings.

They slowly passed through the narrow streets, receiving odd stares from the passer-by as the horse rhythmically clopped its hooves on the smooth cobblestone. The steady brouhaha of the city streets seemed to falter in their presence, again picking up as they passed. The canals were frozen over (her doing, of course), speckled with hurried skaters rushing past each other in the commotion.

There still wasn’t the slightest hint of magic. As such a cultural and commercial centre, Daphné would have thought it to be the next bastion of freedom, a symbol for wizardkind, unrestrained from its shackles.

But it didn’t feel free.

They drew to an abrupt halt before a formidable brick house. Several uniformed guards were posted in front, the bright blue of their coats harshly contrasting the dull red brick. Daphné stepped off onto the path, lightly clicking her heels on the stone.

A guard spoke up, voice gruff. “The general will be waiting inside, Mademoiselle.”

*

The interior was beautiful, but all Harry could feel was dread.

An intricate chandelier hung from the high ceiling, illuminating the hall and its elaborate furnishings, accentuating the deep shadows. A grand marble staircase stood at the centre, towering over him intimidatingly.

“Come.” His companion’s heels clicked on the smooth marble of the staircase.

He attempted to follow, but his legs were immobile, seemingly weighed down by a block of ice. He struggled to keep up with her pace. Each step he took became increasingly difficult as if his body sensed the danger before him.

He eventually reached the top, trembling, tracing Daphné’s light steps through the corridor. He came to face with an elaborately carved wooden door, shaking in trepidation as she rhythmically tapped her knuckles on the hollow wood.

The door opened, making way to a characteristically familiar room, brightened by a soft candlelight. The man appeared younger than he’d expected, his long, slightly greying hair giving away an indication of his age.

“The prisoner, _mon général_.”

The man was staring directly at him. “Thank you, Mademoiselle. You may leave us.”

Daphné gave a curt nod, turned, and promptly exited the room. The smell of lavenders failed to linger.

“General Jean-Charles Pichegru, pleased to make your acquaintance.” His hand was outstretched.

Harry reluctantly took the hand into his own, feebly shaking it.

“Harry Potter.” The words barely registered out of his mouth.

“Seat yourself, Monsieur Potter. Do you play?”

He nodded weakly, knees buckling, and he fell back, almost collapsing onto the plush velvet of the chair. A board lay on the desk, rather intricately decorated, its bright colours contrasted by the scatter of ominous skulls on its spiralled spaces.

“I was quite surprised when I received the missive that we had a foreign wizard in custody. All the way from Britain! Needless to say, I had to meet you.”

A pair of smooth wooden dice lightly turned in the general’s hand, dropping onto the flat surface. 

“I’m honoured.” He tried to swallow, but his mouth felt awfully dry.

The general picked up a metallic piece, moving it several spaces on the board. “Now, Monsieur Potter, would you be willing to enlighten me on how exactly you’ve landed yourself here.”

“I was arrested in Amsterdam for being a wizard.” He could barely see the board in front of him, his vision hazy in his fear. The dice felt awfully cold in his hand, the wood digging into his skin, numbing it.

“And please tell, Monsieur Potter, what were you doing in Amsterdam? It’s a turbulent time nowadays.”

“The war hadn’t yet reached the city.” The game piece was heavy, very troublesomely so.

“That does not answer my question.”

Harry’s vision cleared and he sat up, straightening his back the best he could in his vertige, eyes tracing the general’s hands. “I don’t see why the affairs of wizards are in any way your concern.”

“But they are Monsieur Potter! This revolution was started by _your_ brethren, and it’s quite odd, is it not, that _you_ seem to appear in the clutches of our enemy during our time of triumph?”

He leaned closer to the desk, attempting not to falter before the general. “And tell me still, _mon général_ , how exactly does this become your concern?”

“The revolution perpetuates for liberty Monsieur Potter, and I only serve to protect it.”

Harry sighed. If there was anybody that could save him at this stage, the general seemed to be his best bet, save Daphné perhaps. He fixed his gaze into Pichegru’s beady black eyes, maintaining firm eye contact.

“ _Mon_ _général_ , I am a wizard,” A small flame danced at his fingertips. “I have no liberties to protect, my magic gives me all the freedom I need.”

The general’s piece landed on a skull, reflecting the orange glow as he moved it several spaces back.

He continued. “I have no need of obtaining any more freedoms, I have no need of maintaining any pride, I am only concerned about my own security and that of others around me.”

The general stared intently at the board.

“Which is put at risk by _your_ civil constitution and _your_ revolution.” Harry toyed with the dice in his free hand.

He blinked, eyes wandering the drawings. “A small price to pay for the greater good.”

“But is it worth all the pain, _mon_ _général_? Wizards and muggles don’t mix well—they never have—and getting rid of this separation—this shield—will only cause more trouble than it’s worth.”

There was a slight, awkward pause. “It is never that simple, Monsieur Potter. We do not fight for our own selfish whims, we fight for humanity, and that include both wizards and your so-called _muggles_.”

“You will be leaving with Mademoiselle Daphné.”

Harry dropped his piece. “You’ll let me go that easily?”

The general responded. “The Mademoiselle seems to have more use for you than I.”

“Just think about what I said, _mon général_.”

Harry stood up, carefully retracing his steps as he exited the room, shutting the door behind him with a slam.

Both game pieces were still stalled near the beginning of the spiral.


	4. Luxembourg

The city was on fire, and Harry would have liked to think it wasn’t his fault.

They’d just regrouped with the army at Luxembourg. The city was surrounded, the army already in the process of dismantling the supposed last bastion of oppression in the Low Countries.

Harry just felt out of place.

He was still a prisoner, he still didn’t have his wand, but it seemed that he was now in some form accepted within the ranks of the army. Daphné had stopped binding him after his meeting with the general, and therefore, physically, he was unrestrained.

None of that meant he could go anywhere, however. His wand was still in Daphné’s possession, and he had absolutely no idea how to escape from the continent with or without it.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t able to cause a whole lot of trouble, unintentionally or not.

The heat of the open flames clashed violently with the freezing winter air, the smoke billowing from the timber roofs, encapsulating the atmosphere with a heavy charring. Daphné stood next to him, visage slightly distorted and discoloured by the bubble-head charm she’d cast on herself.

The troops were paused at the sight, mouths wide open as the ribbons of flame endlessly spiralled through the air, engulfing everything in its path. The battle seemed to be stopped, both sides ceased by the sheer incredulity of the situation.

“Just _how_ exactly did you manage this?” Daphné turned towards him with an unbelieving expression.

He cowered. “I’m… not sure.”

“You can’t surely… do something like this by accident, can you?”

Harry winced. “It seems so.”

She huffed. “I can’t believe it. You don’t even have your wand.”

They were interrupted by an intense barrage of artillery fire, rousing the previously stalled chaos of the siege. Daphné waved her wand, deflecting the shrapnel in their paths with seeming ease, completely disregarding the total disorder unfolding around her.

He braved a question. “What exactly are you trying to accomplish?”

“I’m trying to capture the city, _petit_ _malin_.” Daphné glared at him.

They continued, alone, up the deserted street. A burning beam fell out of the sky next to them, immediately melting the patch of snow on the ground.

“How exactly are you going to go about doing _that_?”

“Wait and see.”

The buildings continued to smoulder, the dark smoke only adding to the already extreme disarray, obscuring their visions in the haze. Harry struggled to keep up with her pace.

“We’re _past_ the front lines. Are you _sure_ you’re not out of your mind?”

“Quite certain.”

They continued to traverse through the cobbled streets, astonishingly coming across little disturbance as they drew increasingly nearer to the towering inner-city walls. Compared to spotlessness of Amsterdam, the streets of Luxembourg weree strangely invigorating. The effects of the passing war were completely visible, parts of the city were heavily damaged, and an enormous tension seemed to shroud the entire area.

It was quite delightful, in a way. He delighted in the feeling as if the world was rushing around him, moving on without his involvement. He delighted in the pace of events, each passing second seemingly overturning the previous. He delighted in the scale of the battle, the thousands of individuals congregating together to participate on a single platform.

The city must have once been extremely beautiful. It still was, in a gruesome way. Once, not so long ago, whole families had regularly crossed the now desolate streets, carrying on their lives without worry, or knowledge, of the upcoming turmoil that would be brought to their homes. It was liberating, in a sense, to carry on without the presence of any stability—without the presence of anything grounding. The lifelessness of his surroundings seemed to indicate that—the previous inhabitants had moved on, in death, or somewhere else.

They eventually came to a stop behind a whitewashed, timber-framed house, still almost unaffected despite the devouring flames in its proximity. Daphné soon became deep in concentration, twirling her wand in intricate patterns, releasing thin wisps of light blue frost into the air, cloaking the environs with a layer of light, dusted particles. The frost settled, extinguishing previously burning roofs, leaving nothing but heavy charring and mild bits of moisture.

The scene was remarkably pleasing, Harry thought. The faint tendrils of steam were almost cleansing, bringing a certain serenity to the chaos. The way the heat and flames just vanished, assimilating into the coldness around it was refreshing. It really was strange. There was death, destruction, and violence all around him but where he was—in his little bubble—he felt safe, protected, even if it was only momentary. He would have been content just dying right there, he thought, lost in the tranquillity of the very instant.

He shut his eyes, relishing his feeling of euphoria, his warmth despite the icy cold, his comfort despite the clearly uncomfortable situation. The warmth continued to linger, however, and soon it became uncomfortably hot, scalding.

When he reopened his eyes, the only thing he could see was red.

*

The city was on fire, _again_ , and Daphné knew it was definitely Potter’s fault.

The siege had not been going in their favour when they arrived, and hours later, it was certainly still not going in their favour.

She pressed her palm to her forehead, exasperated. “Potter, out of everything you could have done accidentally, could you _please_ have done something of help?”

Her companion was staring at the ash-covered ground, avoiding her gaze. “I’m… really not sure. Besides, we’re supposed to be enemies, aren’t we?”

“It would be rather nice if you were of any help,” Daphne responded stiffly, “Considering that I’m the only thing that’s been keeping you alive.”

She released a deep sigh, scanning her surroundings. There was panicked shouting coming from all directions, each crumble of the collapsing structures furthering the extent of the commotion. Unlike the previous instance, the fighting continued, the explosions and shouts only increasing in intensity with each passing second.

For the first time in her time with the Revolutionary Army, Daphné was at a loss for what to do. She bit her bottom lip frustratingly. She’d always prided herself in her capabilities, but at the very moment, she felt helpless, completely at the mercy of everything around her.

It wasn’t a nice feeling.

Her prisoner had now recovered from his embarrassment, looking at her intently, and with curiosity. She’d always been proud, but now, she just wanted to cower, to hide from the shame of not being capable of handling the situation. Even if it was from one of her inferiors, before whom she promised to herself never to show any sign of weakness. She struggled to keep herself from hyperventilating. She was supposed to be confident, sure of herself, and able.

But she felt weak.

It was still all his fault, of course. The absolute cretin had managed to disturb her spell not once, but twice with his ridiculous accidental magic. She knew he acted like a child, but it was completely out of the question that he would suffer from the same afflictions as one. She’d prepared for the worst situations imaginable before the left for the front, but it never would have been— _should_ have been something completely unimaginable amongst fully-grown adult wizards.

It was the coldest winter in decades (she might have had something to do with it), and all the men were starving, freezing, and ridden with disease. Supplies were extremely scarce; they’d been surrounding the city for months, and every single bit of the surrounding area had been emptied of all of its resources. Somehow, absolutely none of those issues were as disastrous as what her obnoxious prisoner had managed to do _accidentally_. She had trained for years to perfect her skills and Potter had the gall to set the outer limits of an _entire_ _city_ on fire _accidentally_?

She looked around agitatedly. She didn’t know how to remedy this—her spell was ruined, the troops were panicked, dying, and Potter was most likely still inclined to muck up the situation again in some form. Taking deep, drawn out breaths, she began to stumble towards her prisoner.

“Is everything alright?” He seemed to have recovered from his daze and was now looking at her inquisitively.

Daphné only glowered at him. The chaos around her felt completely irrelevant, the smouldering around her seemingly disappearing as she directed the entirety of her attention onto Potter. She calmed, bottling up her thoughts, refraining from erupting for a moment.

Without warning, she began to yell furiously. “Out of _everything_ you could have done, could you not have compromised our entire success? The entire operation is collapsing just because you couldn’t hold back something you should have had under control as a _child_?”

Her companion visibly flinched; his expression annoyingly perplexed. “I swear—I really have no idea what got over me. I was distracted for a moment, and the next thing I knew, it was absolutely scalding, and everything was burning.”

He seemed quite flustered, and Daphné couldn’t really sympathise. He had, after all, managed to spoil the _entire_ conquest of the Low Countries, possibly delaying for days, weeks—even months.

Now, surrounded by a panicked, retreating army, artillery barrages, and enveloped in a sea of flames, there was only a single possible target for her ire, and she was determined not to let go of any of her grievances.

“I wouldn’t suffer any consequence if you died right here, right now.” She spoke softly, voice laced with daggers.

“And so,” she inched closer, almost touching the charred flakes on the tips of his eyebrows, her laurel wand prodded into his chest, “you will _not_ do anything that will harm, or even inconvenience us, intentionally or not, because I _will_ be requesting that you be executed the moment you step just a finger out of line.”

Daphné almost laughed at the display before her. His bright green eyes seemed to be literally exuding fear; his ruffled complexion worsened by his very obviously frightened expression. She withdrew to a more comfortable distance.

The structures were still collapsing if the constant noise and debris on the ground was any indication. The smoke was still overwhelming, severely inhibiting her vision. She knew, however, that her comrades were long gone, fled from the scene of battle amid the chaos, retreated to recuperate from their losses. It was slightly problematic, because of this, that they were still trapped in its wake, fortunately unnoticed by anybody in the vicinity.

The only issue was that there wasn’t anybody in the vicinity, and the defenders had already passed their current retreat, placing themselves between the two magicals and the rest of the army.

They were in for a bit of a challenge, but Daphné wasn’t one to give up.

She moved her hand beneath her neckline, smiling slightly as she felt for the hard, textured silver beneath the soft fabric. She would eventually prevail, of that there wasn’t any doubt.

She turned towards her still slightly startled companion. “Come, Potter. We’ll be needing to find a way out of here.”

*

It seemed to Harry that his luck had finally run out. He’d managed to survive much longer than he’d expected, nevertheless, so he shouldn’t have really minded.

He minded very much, however. He quite liked living, even if he was trapped for the foreseeable future. Whether that was an issue, he thought, was disputable. He’d grown to quite like his captor, despite how frightening she could be some—no—all of the time.

He groaned at the burning structures in his proximity. There didn’t seem to be anything around that wasn’t dangerous, there didn’t seem to be anything around that could work to their benefit, and there didn’t seem to be any way to rescue themselves from the situation. He’d have felt much safer with his wand.

A wand that was currently in the possession of a certain badly-tempered blonde witch.

It was of no matter, if he was going to die today, he would be much more satisfied if he died _with_ her to an Austrian soldier rather than _to_ her.

He ventured to speak. “Where will we be going, Mademoiselle?”

His captor scowled, a sight he’d grown used to seeing. It was quite a nice scowl.

“We’re quite trapped, in case if you haven’t noticed.”

He risked a quip. “I did escape from a prison once, Mademoiselle.”

The cobbled streets were now covered with a thin layer of light grey ash, merging with the small patches of snow that had not yet succumbed to the heat. Their feet crunched against the ground as they inched themselves closer to the tanned stone of the city walls.

Harry baulked. “We’re going _this_ way?”

“I’m not exactly keen on crossing the _entire_ _army_ in the other direction, Potter.” Daphné tapped her wand on the bricks.

“Into the city?”

“It seems so, yes.”

“Won’t we be captured?”

“Hopefully not, we don’t exactly look like soldiers, do we? I think I’d much rather confront a few guards instead of an entire army.”

She waved her wand, vanishing the soot that had previously blanketed them. The wall rapidly animated, manifesting into a symmetrical archway, behind which lay a second wall, this time out of red brick. It reminded Harry awfully of home, of trips to London—to Diagon Alley. He shook the thoughts from his mind. He couldn’t afford to be homesick now, in all likelihood he’d never set foot in Britain again, even if he survived.

Carefully crouching through the archway, he looked up. The timber roof of the house they’d entered behind was still immaculate. The brick was pristine, if not slightly mossy. The scene reminded him of Amsterdam—seemingly completely unaffected by the destruction in its midst.

Harry stopped in his tracks. “This is… the exact same city we were just in?”

He could have imagined that Daphné snorted. “You haven’t burned all of it down, thankfully. If you haven’t forgotten, the outside looked like this a few hours ago. Now, _please_ don’t be too obvious. We’re in a muggle city and they’re bound to hold a quite a bit of dislike for us.”

He grimaced. “I think I’ve learned my lesson.”

“You better have.”

They exited the alley and came to face with rabbles of city-goers, seemingly tense with the ongoing siege beyond the walls. Life as usual seemed to be continuing, however, its people pacing about, running errands, working, and doing whatever muggles did on their own.

It was suffocating.


End file.
